


31 Days o' Whump

by Emeka



Category: Ogre Battle (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Ending, Blood and Injury, Fever, Friendship, How Do I Tag, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Touch-Starved, Vomiting, Wound Dressing, eh i'll keep them as separate people, mentions of - Freeform, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: drabble prompt fills for prompts from promptsforyourwhumpfic.tumblr.com, the whumptober taguses just the prompts, not the extra stuff, cause that takes all the fun out of it





	1. Denim/Canopus: stabbed

“Your first, huh?” Canopus asks sympathetically, eyes alert and hands gentle as he assists Denim in disrobing. 

“I didn’t even notice it at the time,” Denim says. He looks a little peaky, and his voice wavers, but he’s otherwise putting on a brave face for someone who was stabbed for the first time only a short while earlier.

At Almorica, he’d participated in relative little of the battle. There had been no great hurt. In a way today had been his first real battle. And this… his sister could heal it, had in fact insisted, but Canopus sees the practical use in learning to care for oneself.

“That’s pretty normal. Adrenaline.” He washes his hands first of all the grime and blood on them, and turns to the wound with a different basin. 

He finds it easy on average to be clinical about this sort of thing. That Denim is young and well-formed, is easy to ignore for the stab wound in his side. Thankfully it doesn’t look too terrible, although he’s never had one that he liked to look at. He doesn’t blame Denim for looking fixedly away as he rinses water over it.

Pressure next, and he carefully leads him into a lying down position for this. It is a little awkward, having him beneath his hands, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, for what will probably be a while, but he makes small talk and they get along pretty well. 

“Way to go,” he says, carefully pulling the pad back. “No more bleeding. But now we’re cleaning again—with salt water.”

“Oh.” Denim looks a little at him, brow creased. “Will it sting?”

“Nah.”

Denim sits up, and things are easy-peasy from there. “It’s not so open that it won’t close on its own. We’ll just dress it and, I guess, once you know how it’s done, you can have it closed magically.”

Once he’s done, he expects that that’s what will happen. He’s proud of him for doing so well, though, and for being so young. He ruffles his hair up before sending him on his way.

That night though as everyone is undressing for bed, he sees the dressing still wrapped on his side.


	2. Denim/Mirdyn: bloody hands

The battle has just ended. All the tension leaves his body, not immediately, but maybe that would be easier. It might feel like relief, or like a weight off his shoulders. What it feels like instead is recovering, trying to ground himself.

Denim absently counts heads just to be sure, while doing his own self-check. His body feels less numb, more himself, as he actively pays attention to it. Here are his feet, and all the toes wriggle. Here are his legs, achey but unhurt. His hips... his stomach... all ten of his fingers, thanks... there's a patch of red higher up on his arm. He's not sure if it's his blood or not--he can't feel any hurt right now, but that doesn't always mean anything.

He takes off his gloves (they're bloodstained enough at the moment) and presses his bare hand over it. There's a bit of a twinge, and his palm comes away bloody. Probably his, then. Unfortunately he's all tapped-out for magic at the moment, nor does he feel like patching up by hand. Surely there's someone here with some energy to spare.

Mirdyn is the first person with healing magic he sees, so he's the first person he goes to.

As he's approaching, their eyes meet, and he holds up his hand. Mirdyn nods, and that's all until they're close enough to touch.

"Is it very bad?" he asks, carefully taking Denim's bicep in one hand, under the elbow with the other. Warmth radiates from where he touches, even over his clothing. 

"No, I don't think so. Still. Can you heal it?"

"I'm always happy to help."

The warmth blossoms and travels up his entire arm with a faint wavering light, healing it not only of the injury but all the local tension and fatigue. It feels as good as it started the day as.

Mirdyn presses down on the spot of injury, firm enough to be noticeable. "All better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"That's good." He takes his hand back, noticing a split-second after Denim does that he's come away with the still-wet blood. "Oh, sorry."

Sorry for what? Checking on him? It's so like him that he has to smile. "It's fine. Now we match."


	3. Destin/Magnus: insomnia

“Still can’t sleep?”

Magnus starts a little, and turns. Destin smiles back, a cup of something hot in his hands. The steam rises visibly into the cool night air. “Sorry.”

The cup is silently offered to him. He takes it. The heat feels like a hearth in his palms. It reminds him of home, and everything he’s lost. All he has to say into the silence is a murmured thanks, and it doesn’t feel like enough. He feels a need to explain himself, but he’s sure Destin has heard it all by now. The loss of his father, one of his friends… his _childhood_ friend.

His sleeping difficulties that have been going on a while now.

He takes a deep breath and smells cut apples. “Hope I’m not keeping you up.”

“No,” Destin says, still smiling just a little, like he can see right through him. “I’m fine. It’s you that worries me.”

Magnus drinks to keep from replying. It tastes like apples too, and honey. Warmth from the tea fills his face.

“I think you’ve been left to your own too much.”

Magnus cautiously looks over at him; more of a side-eye, really. “What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s a time to be stoic, and a time to be close.” His expression fills with sympathy. “You lead them, so you must be strong. But you’re still young.”

“Was it like that for you, too?”

Destin hmms thoughtfully. “From one leader of men to another… feel free to seek the comfort in me you can’t from anyone else.” 

It’s a daunting thought. He isn’t a child anymore, to need to be comforted, but… wouldn’t it feel nice? Doesn’t he maybe even deserve it, after everything he’s gone through? It’s selfish to think like that, of course, but it won’t have any effect on his men. The only one he’ll impose on is one person, who knows very well the kind of burden he faces.

He swallows down a lump in his throat. “If I did want that, how would I get it?”

“What about a good night’s sleep, first of all?”

They sleep together in the same tent that night, on the same roll of blankets, as innocently as if they were brothers. The closeness of their bodies makes him feel starved for touch, for physical affection, and Destin does not protest as he gets closer and closer in until they are cuddling.

It’s easy to pretend he is a child again, and with that, that his father is still alive, his parents back together, and tomorrow he’ll see Yumil too… it’s during his fantasizing that he falls asleep, more soundly and happier than he has in a long time.


	4. Tristan/Cain: no, stop

Tristan wakes when his tent mate does, badly startled. He thinks he heard him yell, in his sleep and then in the split-second between that and being wide awake, but he definitely feels him jolt up beside him.

"Cain?" he says, voice shaking more than he wishes it would. "What's wrong?"

Their eyes meet, and Tristan sees just for an instant how terrified he is before the veil of shame comes down over his face. "It's nothing," he mumbles, looking away. "Just a dream."

"A _bad_ dream?" Tristan asks. The side of Cain's cheek that he can see goes red. "What was it?"

Cain slides back down, his blankets pulled up to his chin. "I can't stop thinking about it. All the things that could have gone wrong. How you might have... died. How _I_ might have died. Guess it carried over." Except for the pause in the middle, it all comes out in a rush.

"You dreamed you were killed?" No response, except for Cain's flush traveling up to his forehead. "Or me?"

"I'm sorry. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid, dummy," Tristan says affectionately, and rolls over to face him. "You want to talk? Or write?"

There's a visible hesitation before he answers, and the one he gives is more or less one Tristan expected. "I don't want to keep you up, so if the light won't bother you..."

Tristan shakes his head. While Cain is out of bed, fetching some light and his journal, his fingers slowly push out into his spot, still warm with his sleepy body heat.

Cain settles back in beside him, facing away on his elbow to write. The light off the candle softly lights the tent walls. The sound of his scritchy quill is familiar and comforting; it reminds Tristan of their childhood together, all the evenings and mornings he's heard that sound while looking at his back.

He scoots in closer to him, closer than he probably ever has been while they've both grown into teenagers, and throws an arm around his waist. The scritching pauses, then continues, and he falls asleep in short order. It is the middle of the night, after all, and his relief has made him heavy with nerves.

Morning arrives in what feels like no time at all. He is not surprised therefore to find himself in the same position, but is tenderly amused to see that after his writing Cain slept on his back--his hand clasped on his arm.


	5. Canopus/Rudlum: poisoned

“Must have been poisoned,” Canopus gripes, looking at the thin gash down his forearm. It had done little damage by itself but throughout the rest of the battle he’d felt increasing bouts of dizziness and feeling sick in the gut. It’s only now, looking at it again, that he sees the tell-tale redness and feels the heat spreading from it.

A quick search in his pack turns up nothing. Just great. Well, someone is bound to have medicine he can bum off them.

“Need any help over there?”

Canopus slowly looks up toward the voice and sees Rudlum approach, hand raised in greeting. His head swims. “Just a bit. Got any antidote on you?”

“Certainly.” Rudlum sits down beside him, pack in his lap, and brings out a small glass bottle. “Just this, or a salve as well?”

“Since we’re at it...”

Rudlum smiles, glancing back and forth between the bottle and him. He unscrews the bottle. “You’re taller than me, so tilt your head back a little.”

He’s moving on him before Canopus can actually say anything, bottle already rising and tipping. This feels like he’s being made fun of, but better than letting it go to waste.

Tilting his head shuffles all the furniture, so to speak. He grabs onto Rudlum’s arm to steady himself as he drinks, misses the first wave against his lips, then with a sip and a gulp has downed the rest. There’s something he should say, he thinks, while he’s wiping off his chin, but by then Rudlum has moved on to fixing his arm, not giving him a single look. It isn’t that big a deal, though he wonders what caused it.

Rudlum _is_ pretty good-looking, once he looks at him like he would someone he didn’t just think of as a comrade. But one redhead is bad enough.


	6. Albeleo/Rashidi: betrayed

"I am depending on you more than ever, Albeleo," master says, clapping his hands on his shoulders.

A feeling surges inside his chest, like the magic still thrumming up his arm. Pride, and sorrow--not so much at the loss of a friend (they were not) but the loss of potential, of one of their flock.

That Saradin had been the best among them, he has no illusions. Or that he had been favored by their master. He had begrudged him neither, but now that he's gone... or at least out of the way for now...

"I won't disappoint you, master."

Rashidi looks satisfied, and turns away, the warmth of his broad hands quickly fading. If he's upset by Saradin turning against them, against _him_ , then he hasn't shown it. Was this too something he had foreseen?

And if so, had he known the response?

The thought is disquieting, at least in that he hadn't told him. Not that it is his place to question. He is master's tool to use.

He will follow.


	7. Alphonse/Rictor: kidnapped

Alphonse went back, in the end. Maybe there was something else he should have done, but torn between his close friend and a woman he just met, he found himself drawn to the familiar. Right or wrong.

And having him back, perhaps sensing how close he had been to being refused, Rictor is more affectionate with him, particularly that night.

"What exactly _did_ happen at Formido?" he asks, as they help each other disarmor for the night.

It's familiar, friendly. Comforting, like his fingers on his back, like his voice behind him, ruffling his hair with each laugh. So Alphonse answers, because in the face of this familiarity it's easier to let things be the way they have been. And as he speaks he allows himself to be turned this way and that, though the whip marks have long since healed. This is also routine. 

Afterwards Rictor cups his face in his hands, examining his face and particularly his eyes. For his pupils, probably. "And the drug has worn off? You feel fine?"

"I'm alright, Rictor."

Rictor smiles, leans in with eyes closed. Beatific and yet, as their foreheads touch, he feels something shiver down his back. "I was so worried about you, when you went missing... then that awful woman tried to take you from me."

Alphonse does not reply that he was with Cybil of his own accord. He does not say that if he had chosen to stay with her, it would have been his decision. But Rictor had not seen even the possibility of it as that way, and still won't.

The groove made for him carries him along, always keeping them close. And when Rictor asks him to stay in Felis with him, he agrees. Sometimes he wonders what else his life might have been, but it doesn't matter. Even this vague sense of stiflement is an old, well-known piece of his life.


	8. Denim/Rudlum: fever

Sometimes Denim forgets it's possible to get sick. That it just happens. Getting hurt, dying in battle, or suffering infection are all things he's been exposed to. The few bouts of illness nearby had been deadly killers. Flux made its rounds occasionally, or pneumonia in the turbulent season shifts.

He woke up three mornings ago with an upset stomach. It announced itself with an abrupt urge to vomit while he still dozed, and in the following two seconds became reality after a hasty rollover to dispose of some bile. Fever set in shortly after. Like the one thing wasn't bad enough.

It's how he finds himself now in a sick cot, with a sick bucket conveniently to the side, in a sick tent removed from everyone else in general in case it catches. The whole thing is vaguely humiliating, even apart from other people cleaning out his barf.

He doesn't like being unable to care for himself. Of course he accepts others' help, Catiua coming in with every meal to coax him into keeping something down, Vyce every morning to change him into fresh bedclothes. He isn't so stupid or stubborn or thoughtless that he'd refuse. But it doesn't change how he feels about it. Nor does being sick put him in a good mood for socializing. He'd rather stare at the center pole and contemplate how viable putting ice cubes in his heat-ravaged nostrils is than socialize.

Still, given his position, of course people still come to see him. Not just to wish him well, but for little instructions as to how things should be done. Have your thank-yous and your orders and please, just...

By night five the vomiting has ceased. The fever has not, but abated at least. His vision sways with every movement of his head, and he feels so awfully tired just turning over is exhausting. 

He's had more hopeful visitors throughout the day. Everyone says how much better he's getting. The peels of an orange sit on the cotside box along with a half-empty glass of water. The citrus smell stings his nostrils.

There's slight movement at the tent flap, a confident you're-totally-awake, "I'm coming in," and Rudlum slips inside. He's wearing his nightclothes, a smile, and a pail in one hand. Denim half-wonders (he's too tired to even care very much) whether his barf bucket is being returned to him for some reason, but there's a faint sound of water against the sides.

He awaits the reason. For the pail, him being here so late... whatever. 

"I know you get changed," Rudlum says, sitting on the edge of the bed, "but have you been bathed at all? Not a real one, of course, just a rinse down."

"No?"

"Would you like one?"

Having his fever sweat washed off will probably help him feel better, and kill some time. "I think I'd like that," he says easily, not anticipating any particular problems. Sharing quarters with so many men has made him far less sensitive about his modesty.

But as Rudlum unbuttons the front of his gown, he thinks with a strange twinge that he might have underestimated the atmosphere. It's so still and quiet. All he hears is a cloth being rung out, then--lukewarm water.

It feels almost cold on his hot skin. He shivers.

His face is carefully patted down from hairline to jaw where sweat collects the most, down into the crook of his neck. Wring. His underarms and ribs. Wring. Down his bare chest and navel. Wring. Carefully up the inner thigh and iliac furrow. He's not sure whether to close his eyes, whether it would be weird or rude, and settles for softly focusing on nothing particular. If he paid too much attention to anything it might make things awkward.

Wring. "Over."

He goes over. Driplets of water have soaked into his bed. His whole front feels clean and chilled. Like the dessert wine he sometimes indulges in at celebratory feasts. A glassy sweetness that frosts his brain. 

All the salt is being cleansed from him, his nape, between his shoulderblades and--wring!--down the line of his spine. Wring. The crease of his buttocks. Wring. Behind his knees. That pail must contain ocean water by now.

The water cools him as it dries. It makes him shiver, but the night is warm, so they even out a little. It feels nice. _He_ feels nice, he realizes, in a way he hasn't in what feels a long time, even prior to the start of this illness. 

"Thanks," he murmurs. "For everything."

"Feel better soon, Denim."

He feels the briefest tousle of his hair before Rudlum leaves. Even the energy of that sensation pleasantly vibrates into and across his scalp. If he falls asleep just like this, surely he'll be forgiven in the morning.


	9. Magnus/Paul: stranded

Another morning, another try of the door.

Still blocked-in by snow. It's been only two days, so their provisions are fine. He's worried about the others though... and for them, Magnus admits privately.

The snowstorm came on hard and sudden. With visibility so poor, and not being able to hear, parts of their unit had been separated. He'd grabbed onto the closest person, held on tight, and stumbled along until they came upon a cabin.

He and Paul came in elbow in elbow, so covered they were practically snowmen. And those first few minutes were the most energetically anxious, not this low-key dread. There was so much to do that seemed it must all be done at once. They helped each other to dress out of their wet clothes and chafed their numb hands together.

The cabin seemed in good enough shape, though it creaked and groaned from the wind and weight. Still he broke some of the furniture down for fire, if necessary.

Then they began to wait. The storm stopped, but left them stranded. The sun was out and shining though, which was hopeful. Maybe the worst of it would melt down.

But in the meanwhile, he sees how cabin fever can happen. Without anything to occupy himself all he can think about is dying, and things going wrong that could lead to them _slowly_ dying. The air feels too thin in his throat. Is he breathing at all?

"You're going to drive yourself crazy fidgeting."

Magnus jumps guiltily. Paul has been cool as a cucumber the entire time; then again, he's probably used to spending time alone, at least. Not that Magnus has pried, but he thinks he got the basic idea of what his life had been like.

"Sorry. It's just... you know."

"Whatever," Paul grumbles, a little too embarrassed sounding to have his usual sternness. "Even I was never trapped like this, so it's no surprise." Even his cheeks are starting to redden a little, and there is apparently something interesting about the snowcovered window. "But having someone to talk to when you're otherwise alone helps."

Magnus resists giving too much of a grin. "So you're saying it's fine for me to rely on you?"

"For now," Paul replies shortly. 

For the next two days, Magnus finds no small amount of comfort in speaking with him (or at, as the case sometimes is) as he and Theokia must once have done. The alternating arrogance and coolness that had once seemed offputting become an inoffensive quirk of personality, even a little cute. It makes the rare warmth stand out that much more. Like a headbump from an unfriendly cat. It must be what Theokia had seen in him.

Things aren't the same once they can make their way back to everyone else. They are, in the end, a commander and his soldier; it wouldn't feel appropriate, and it's not necessary. But one day there may be a need again, and he knows who he can depend on.


	10. Canopus/Destin: bruises

Sounds of the siege can still be heard inside the castle walls. Destin is all too aware what is currently going on in there, having just left with his unit. Well, having just been repelled would be more accurate, but it hardly matters. This is part of the natural flow and tide of attacking an enemy base, attacking and retreating for another to lead the assault.

They tend to each other the best they can inbetween. Their healer rests to conserve her energy before they march again, leaving them to their own devices for whatever isn't going to kill them. Nicks and cuts, but bruises mostly, from impact beneath armor, blunt blows that don't crack or break anything.

Canopus is with them, to help them over the walls, and thus it's him Destin pays the most attention to. It feels like grooming. Canopus' wings have to be carded through for injury (and out of his own finickiness, he pulls any out of place feathers) then he feels down his back looking for bruised patches, or bruise-to-be swollen areas that he is hopefully in time to ice.

Anything else, like upfront, Canopus can obviously tend to himself. And when they reverse positions, it's the same way. His skin can't help but tingle a little, and it makes it feel like more, that he is feeling himself down from chest to thigh as a man rubs ointment over all the sore spots in his back. 

It's not like having all his wounds tended to is the reason he feels so light afterward. Not wholly, and it's kind of embarrassing, but he keeps it private. There's no need to do anything about it and this definitely won't be the time for a while. He's an adult.


	11. Denim/Gildas: hypothermia

He’s been cold so long that the moment it changes, he knows something’s wrong. Even the way he knows it, only a vague alarm in his head, tells him the same.

He feels warm. Hot. It takes all of his willpower, and his fuzzy brain reminding himself over and over that the weather is bitterly cold, to keep his hands from almost automatically undressing himself. So hot. Like being in Griate again. Even the wind feels warm.

He realizes someone is talking to him out of view, but even that is hard to pay attention to. A feeling of pressure more than a distinct hand grabs his upper arm.

"Are you alright, Denim?"

"I--" Even his mouth feels clumsy and thick. "Sorry. No."

He's kept firmly in place as the man (Gildas, he'd recognize this bristly beard if not his voice) walks around him to look him in the face. "Hot? Numb?"

Both. Either? It should be easy to explain but his mind and mouth are going around about it.

Gildas claps him on the arm. "We'll get you warmed up, kid," he says, then turns to shout what sound like orders to people nearby.

Warmed-up? But he's already so toasty. Cozy, almost, like he could fall asleep.

Gildas keeps him hugged tightly to his side and speaks to him in a friendly, conversational tone. Denim doesn't really pay attention to the words but the tone is soothing. It keeps everything else at bay; his sluggish heartbeat trying to climb up his throat, and the terror that something might be very badly _wrong_ with him.

Snow is shovelled away. A tent is set-up. Denim allows himself to be led in. The floor is covered with blankets. Even dirt will be too cold, Gildas explains, before looking unusually serious.

"I need to strip some of your clothes off you. Just what's wet." He's not exactly asking permission. He's already pulling off some of Denim's upper layers, his coat, greaves, even his headband. It has to be done. He's just explaining the necessity. Somehow the thought is a good one. If Gildas knows what's necessary, obviously it means he knows what to do.

It's not even embarrassing, though that might be due to his state of mind. He gets to keep his smallclothes on at least.

He has to be led down. His legs are too numb to balance on his knees at all. Blankets are wrapped around him until he feels like a swaddled infant. A tight sense of pressure bears down on him all around. It feels stiflingly hot.

Gildas undresses a layer, metal creaking and softly thudding on the floor, before he joins him. Denim wouldn't have thought he'd be able to feel someone's body heat through all these layers, but somehow he can. It feels like a big teddy bear attached to his back. He can even feel the weight of his arm across his waist. A cleric comes by a few moments later with filled waterskins.

"Can you fit these in with you? Between the legs and under the arms is best." He's so much taller that when he bends over to speak, his beard scruffs the very top of his head. 

He nods. Even the way he is, he can tell they're filled with heated water. It makes his skin tingle painfully. Even more the tender skin of his thighs and underarms. "Was I... freezing?"

"Still are."

"No alcohol?" His best attempt at a joke. Seriously thinking about how the weather of all things nearly killed him is a bit much at the moment.

Gildas snort-laughs. "You're just a kid. Not that I mind much, but your sister would. That's a myth, anyway."

That's fine. He already feels half-like what he imagines being drunk to feel like anyway. No need to add to that. "You lived in the Hylands..."

"It's cold. Colder than up here in this island. And all the year round. Freezing is something you always think about."

Denim mouths an 'oh'. "Can I sleep?"

"In a little while. So I can be sure."

It's hard to keep track of time, but for maybe ten minutes more, Gildas keeps speaking to him, asking him questions. A few times he takes his pulse--how do you feel now? Tired. More and more tired, and hot, though over time it feels more bone-deep. Like a core of blossoming warmth starting to fill out his insides.

It feels like passing a fever in reverse.

Eventually he can't help but to fall asleep. His condition must be satisfactory because he is allowed to, and the next time he wakes up, it's on his own in what feels like the morning. And feeling like death warmed over. Wriggling out of his sweaty blanket layers alone leaves him panting and weak.

Somehow it's a nostalgic feeling. He's experienced this 'nearly died' exhaustion before. Not from after a battle. That's different; it's from all the nerves and adrenaline washing out of his body. Someplace else?

Someone yawns and stretches beside him. Gildas is still here. "You finally awake?"

"Are you?"

"Am. Was. Your adoring public kept coming in to make sure you hadn't sailed off during the night."

Denim resists the urge to groan. "I don't want a fuss over it."

" _I_ know that. Probably they do too. But it scared them, y'know?"

He manages to flop himself over onto his side, and uses strength he doesn't really have left to kick the blankets off his legs. "Not you?"

"Not a bit," Gildas says pleasantly, eyes closing again. Neither make a move to stir, and Denim follows suit. Closer than the bustle he can hear outside, is the heavy sound of Gildas' breathing.

Maybe he can sleep in just a little bit longer...


	12. Elrik/Rictor: electrocution

Rictor wakes blearily... staring up at the pitched ‘roof’ of some tent. It’s a non-sequiter. Last he remembers is being in battle, and then...

A flash of some kind. Was it that which put him over?

His fingers testingly close and open. Seems fine, but he needs to get up, move around, check for sure. His body aches but there’s no real pain. The worst of it must have been healed already.That’s good. Good... still, he has to be sure of himself.

He tries to lift himself, but the effort to clench his abdomen is too much. Arms won’t move either. His shoulders squeak in protest. The little he manages to get up—not even a half-inch—is insustainable. He collapses back down, squishing grass under him. 

“You’re awake?”

He starts, although the voice is immediately recognizable to him, and tries to at least sit himself up on his forearm to see. Elrik is sitting at the other side of the tent, a book in his lap. “What happened?”

“Struck with lightning,” Elrik says, and closes his book, using his finger as a bookmark. “You were still alive, though your heart stopped. Fortunately I was able to resucitate you to make things easier on our clerics.”

Rescucitate. Rictor’s tongue automatically swipes across his bottom teeth, even though of course he wouldn’t have gone _that_ far. The fact that he’d had another man’s mouth on his while he was unconscious is still a strange one. “Thank you. How long has it been?”

“Just the other day.” His eyes flick to and back from the entrance. “Alphonse will be glad to hear you’re fine. You are, aren’t you? Nothing you need?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Either they gave him water as he slept, or the near death experience has put him off, but he’s not even thirsty. Just so tired. “Maybe go back to sleep.”

Elrik nods and turns back to his book. “That would be wise.”

Sleep does not come fast, certainly not easy. No matter how clear and calm he tries to make himself, each scratchy turn of a page only recalls his attention to someone else being in the room. If it was Alphonse it wouldn’t be a problem, but this man is almost a complete stranger to him. He doesn’t even leave the tent now that he’s awoken, which peeves him a little although those are likely the orders he’s been given. Keep an eye on the invalid, and someone will come check up on you.

Rictor tries not to sigh. Hard. “What are you reading?”

Elrik does not directly answer, but instead reads aloud.

It is, Rictor quickly gathers, mythology on local ruins. A subject he himself is fond of, and relayed to him in pleasant, measured notes. With something outside himself to focus on, his mind lulls itself deeper and deeper, into a state of only listening, barely existing. At the deepest part, a few minutes before he falls asleep, he can’t even do that. Everything flows in one ear, out the other, words travelling through his mind without notice.

Like ice in a running stream, he melts.


	13. Kaus/Figaro: 'stay'

“Are you sure about this?”

Kaus pauses in the doorway. The wind is still today, making it fine weather for last-minute assurances. On a windier day he’d hurry to leave, best friend or not. “You worry too much, Figaro.”

But Figaro has always been stubborn, and his lifted chin says he believes the opposite. “The Xenobian capital is so far away.”

“It’s the Empress’ orders.”

That makes his expression soften, but only enough to display respect. “Maybe if I went with you… if something happened without me, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Norn will be close,” Kaus says lightly. “I’m sure she’ll take your share of self-blame and then some.”

A tense silence follows between them, and for a moment it feels one of them will say something that should never be said, even when it appears one is alone, things Kaus has never so much as thought. But it passes, unremarked. They are men of their Empire... first and foremost.

“Stay here for me,” Kaus says, face turning slightly out, as though it is only the cold and the need to leave that has prompted him into speaking. “I’ll be back to see you soon.”

He hears footsteps over the stone, and looks back as casually as he can. Figaro smiles bravely though the wintry air makes him look washed-out. “I’ll stay and wait, then. Hey... I’m holding you to it, alright?”

“Worrywart,” Kaus says fondly.


End file.
